The morning streets of Vulcan bustled with life, the sounds of footsteps, horses, and chatter mingling in the crisp air. Among the crowds, Dorothy stood by the roadside, staring up at the signboard of a shop with focused eyes.

  A photography studio...?

  Right... If this world resembles a modern-era foreign country, then it makes sense they’d still need dedicated photo studios for pictures.

  In her previous world, snapping a photo had been a casual, everyday thing. But here, it was still a luxury. Dorothy had never had a proper photo taken—not even once in her life.

  Now, as she gazed at the studio and recalled the content of those two mysterious letters, a clever idea began to form in her mind.

  With that thought, she walked over to a nearby stall selling dark rye bread and spoke to the shopkeeper.

  “Excuse me. That photography studio next door—how long has it been open? Is the owner any good?”

  “Ah, Henry’s pce? He’s been here nearly ten years,” the baker replied cheerfully. “Top-notch quality too. If you’ve got the coin, you won’t regret going to him.”

  Dorothy gave a small nod, thoughtful.

  Sounds reliable… In that case, it might be worth taking one.

  Muttering to herself, she stepped into Henry’s Photography Studio.

  The lighting inside was dim, and the air carried the faint smell of chemicals and dust. An elderly, balding man wearing gsses sat behind a long wooden table, fiddling intently with a rge, boxy camera. Mechanical parts and metal fittings y scattered across the surface.

  When Dorothy entered, the man’s brows furrowed slightly. For a moment, he seemed to wonder if this girl was another homeless waif looking for handouts. But before he could ask, Dorothy spped a handful of coins onto the table with a crisp clink.

  “Mr. Henry, I presume?” she asked with a sweet smile. “Your studio is open for photography at the moment, yes?”

  The old man’s eyes gleamed with interest as he looked up.

  “Heh, of course, young dy. Always ready for a customer.”

  “Great,” Dorothy said, keeping her pleasant tone. “Then let me ask—do you have any props or costumes I can use for the photo?”

  “Certainly!” Henry chuckled, warming up. “We have all sorts of outfits and backdrops here. If I may say so, with a face like yours, miss, a bit of dressing up and you'd pass for a countess’s—no, a duke’s daughter, easy!”

  Dorothy chuckled and waved a hand.

  “No costumes, thank you. Do you happen to have… some rope and cloth strips instead?”

  “Rope… and cloth strips?”

  The old man blinked at her, clearly baffled.

  . . . . . .

  Unlike in Dorothy’s previous life, taking a photo in this world was a cumbersome affair. The exposure time was long, and after taking the picture, it still needed to be developed. Normally, it would take several days before the final print could be picked up.

  However… Dorothy had used a little-known special technique known as “Paying Extra”, and just like that, her photo was ready by afternoon.

  After finishing the photo session, Dorothy strolled through town, ate a light lunch, and even picked up a fresh change of clothes. When the sun began to dip westward, she returned to the studio to retrieve her picture.

  Henry handed it over with a bit of an odd look in his eyes. Clearly, her earlier request still lingered in his mind.

  Back out on the street, Dorothy tore open the envelope and pulled out the photo.

  The image showed a girl tied to a chair, mouth gagged with a cloth strip, eyes gring with intense fury straight into the lens. Her long, pale-white hair spilled down her shoulders—so light it was noticeable even in bck and white.

  It was a picture taken that very morning. Dorothy had posed as a bound and captured victim, using the rope and cloth props she requested.

  And during the entire shoot, Henry had stared at her with a face full of confusion and disbelief.

  Dorothy slid the photo back into the envelope and resumed walking through the town. After asking around and following directions through winding paths, she eventually found herself at the very edge of Vulcan—on a street called North Street.

  At the corner of a crossroad, Dorothy stood silently, her gaze fixed on a scorched, dipidated building in the distance. Judging by the house numbers along the row, that bckened ruin was precisely No. 24.

  She gnced around and quickly spotted a beggar slouched against a wall, dirty and tattered, with a broken bowl resting at his feet. With a polite smile, Dorothy approached and dropped two small coins into his bowl.

  “Ah… Heh heh… May the Holy Mother bless you, kind miss…” the beggar grinned toothlessly as he looked up at her, eyes lighting up at the unexpected charity.

  Dorothy smiled in return, then fished out two more coins, this time holding them up between her fingers so they glinted in the light. The beggar’s eyes widened greedily.

  At that moment, Dorothy pulled out a sealed envelope—the one containing the photo she had taken earlier—and held it out to him.

  “Slip this into the mailbox in front of House No. 24, and these two are yours.”

  The beggar nodded frantically, snatching the envelope and shuffling off down the street with surprising speed. Moments ter, he shoved the envelope into the rusted mailbox of the ruined home. When he returned to his spot, the mysterious young girl was gone—but two more coins now glittered in his bowl.

  . . . . . .

  Having quietly slipped away from North Street, Dorothy wandered the town a while longer. As dusk fell, she stopped by a general store and picked up a bottle of ink, a steel-tipped pen, a few sheets of stationery, and a bnk envelope. By the time she left the shop, the st rays of sunlight were melting into twilight.

  With her supplies in hand, Dorothy walked through the golden haze of sunset until she found a quiet little restaurant. Choosing a secluded seat in the corner, she ordered a rge steak dinner—a rare indulgence—and then id her writing materials neatly on the table.

  As she waited for the food to arrive, she dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to write.

  And rewrite.

  She crumpled the first draft, then the second, then the third—each time forcing herself to write in a messy, unfamiliar hand, far from the careful script that had once belonged to the original Dorothy.

  Eventually, after much effort, she finally completed a version she was satisfied with.

  She held the letter up in the dim light, reviewing its contents:

  . . . . . . . .

  To the Esteemed Mr. Edrick,

  The pn has changed, but the deal is still on.

  However, both time and location have been adjusted.

  The new meeting point will be in the central woods west of Vulcan, at midnight on April 10th—that is, tomorrow night. We will be waiting there with the reward we promised, one that will help you take a giant leap into the extraordinary.

  A word of caution: we’re being watched. It’s not the Bureau or the Church. We’re unsure who or what it is, but their methods are strange… and dangerous. This is why we altered the pn. Be on your guard.

  May we someday share a feast at the same table, and drink together from the Great Chalice of Blood.

  . . . . . . . .

  Dorothy gave a satisfied nod and tucked the letter into the envelope just as her steak arrived. Awkwardly, she picked up her knife and fork—still unfamiliar with the cutlery of this world—and dug into her hearty meal.

  Once she had finished, she gathered her things and stepped back into the cooling night, heading for the outskirts of Vulcan.

  . . . . .

  In the silence of the wilderness, with only the chirping of insects and rustle of grass around her, Dorothy struck a match and burned the failed drafts of her letter.

  Then, she made her way back to the pce where she had hidden the corpse puppet the previous night.

  Tall grass rustled in the breeze. With a soft whisper, Dorothy extended her hand. The power of the Corpse Marionette Ring surged through her, and from the grass, a figure rose.

  Dressed in damp, dark clothing, with pallid skin and lifeless eyes—it was the reanimated corpse of one of Edrick’s henchmen.

  Without hesitation, Dorothy stepped forward and handed him the envelope. The puppet took it silently, its fingers closing around it with mechanical obedience.

  . . . . . . .

  Night fell.

  As the moon rose high above Vulcan, the once-lively town grew quiet and still once more.

  Due to the limited avaibility of lighting resources, few buildings remained lit after dark. But among the handful that did was one crucial pce—the Vulcan Town Police Station.

  The Vulcan Town Police Station stood near the eastern edge of the town square, just beside a quiet crossroads. Under the pale glow of a flickering streetmp, a policeman stood on night duty. He wore a bck uniform, a helmet on his head, and a baton at his waist. His eyes, heavy with sleep, swept over the empty street.

  “…What time is it already? Isn’t it my turn to switch out?”

  The officer muttered wearily, rubbing his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. But when he looked again, he noticed something—a figure, emerging from the darkness of the distant street.

  At first, he didn’t pay much attention. Just some night wanderer, maybe a drunk, or some poor soul returning from overtime.

  But a moment ter, he realized—the figure was coming straight toward him.

  “…Is he… walking over here?”

  Now slightly more alert, the officer narrowed his eyes. The figure’s pace was fast, its direction precise.

  The policeman tensed and gripped his baton.

  “Hey! Stop right there!” he barked. “Who the hell are you? What do you want, creeping around at this hour?”

  Drawing the baton from his belt, he raised it toward the now-close figure—and froze when he got a good look.

  It was a man.

  Tall, broad-shouldered.

  Dressed in dark scks and a shirt, faint tattoos visible on his strong forearms.

  But his skin was ashen pale, and his eyes were lifeless.

  The officer gasped. “Wait— You’re Wood, aren’t you? One of Mad Dog Ed’s men?! What the hell are you doing here? Did that maniac Edrick send you?!”

  He took a cautious step back.

  Mad Dog Ed was infamous in Vulcan. If one of his thugs showed up at the station like this, it couldn’t be anything good.

  But the man—Wood—didn’t respond.

  He simply stood there, staring with dull, gssy eyes.

  Something’s wrong…

  The policeman felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  Then suddenly, Wood’s mouth twitched.

  His lips pulled into a stiff, unnatural grin.

  And the next moment—

  THUD!

  Wood colpsed straight forward, like a toppled pnk, face-first into the ground.

  “AAAHHH!”

  The officer yelped and stumbled back in terror, nearly dropping his baton.

  After a moment of frantic breathing, he managed to steel himself and stepped forward, crouching to check the man’s pulse.

  The moment his fingers touched Wood’s neck, his pupils shrank.

  “He— He’s dead—!”

  Legs trembling, the officer colpsed to the ground, scrambling backward in a panic.

  After catching his breath, he staggered to his feet, turned around, and shoved open the police station doors.

  Minutes ter, a small group of officers rushed out of the building. They gathered around the corpse, now sprawled in front of the station entrance, murmuring in confusion.

  At the center of the group was a hatless middle-aged man, clearly the commanding officer. His brow furrowed deeply as he examined the scene.

  “…It’s really him. Wood.” He scowled. “But how the hell did he die?”

  “I—I don’t know, Captain!” the gate officer blurted, nearly shouting. “He was just—he was walking toward me, from that way! He didn’t say a word, just got close, smiled this creepy smile, and then—bam! Fell over dead! I—This is—I mean—What the hell IS this?! It’s like some ghost story! H-Holy Father save me…”

  The man rambled frantically, arms filing, on the verge of hysteria. The captain gave him a sharp look, but remained calm, though the furrow in his brow deepened.

  “This is strange… could it be…”

  His expression turned grim.

  After a moment of silent thought, he looked at the other officers and ordered in a low voice:

  “Guard the scene. Don’t touch a single thing. Not even a button.”

  Then, without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and strode back into the police station.

  Inside, he found the telegraph operator, who was dozing off at his desk.

  He knocked hard on the counter.

  “Wake up.”

  The operator jolted upright. “C-Captain?!”

  “Confidential priority.”

  The captain’s voice was low and urgent.

  “Send a telegram to Igwynt Intercity’s Serenity Bureau. Tell them to dispatch a Hunter Squad to Vulcan—immediately.”

  “Just say…”

  He hesitated for a beat.

  “…There’s been an incident. A Veiled Case. And it’s turned deadly.”

  Zaztra_Vandesh